


How to be a Wingman

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (Very brief), Alcohol, First Kiss, Food, Kegsters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Year Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Ransom's had a wild couple weeks. He's:-realized he's into Holster;-developed a plan for figuring out if Holster's into him;-discovered that Holster's into someone elseSure, that last one's disappointing, but for Holster's sake, Ransom can set aside his hurt and be the best wingman in Samwell history. The night just... isn't going the way he'd imagined it.





	How to be a Wingman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).



> Happy birthday, templemarker!

The attic's empty when Ransom steps inside, but there's an outfit on Holster's bed, so he's around somewhere.

The outfit is a pair of navy blue shorts and an eye-searingly orange shirt. Ransom purses his lips and picks up the shirt gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. He eyes the trash can wistfully before returning the shirt to Holster's bureau and pulling out a soft sage green shirt instead. It's not that Ransom doesn't trust Holster to dress himself. It's that _no one_ that white looks good in that shade of orange.

"Bro," Holster says, eyebrows drawn down, when he comes into the room and sees what Ransom's done.

Ransom shakes his head. "'Sfor the greater good, dude," he says. "If The Guy is gonna be here tonight, you need all the help you can get."

" _Bro_!" All color drains from Holster's face. Ransom isn't sure what Holster considers the greater betrayal: Ransom critiquing his ability to land someone or Ransom knowing about The Guy. “You heard?”

“Chyeah.”

“And you're… okay with it?” Holster's worry seems out of proportion to the discussion, but then again, it's been a while since they've found themselves in this position.

It's a little-known Samwell fact that Adam Birkholtz is a _disaster_ at dating. He _slays_ at wheeling; he could pick up literally any consenting party on campus. Dating? Actual relationships? Not on your life. His last date was with Tyler Costas their sophomore year, and his last relationship was with Esther Shapiro their frog year. If Holster wants more than a quick tumble with this guy, he's going to have to step up his game. And since his game is basically nonexistent, he'll need Ransom's help.

Ransom isn't supposed to know about The Guy. He's dealing with his feelings around that. Sometimes being a BFF means letting your BFF work out shit on his own until he's comfortable bringing it to you. Still stings, though.

Also, if Holster wants his secrets to stay secret, he should keep in mind that 1) he has no "inside voice"; and 2) Bitty has spent the last two years turning the kitchen into the heart of the Haus, and that it's not an ideal place for a conversation you don't want anyone to overhear.

Ransom is _also_ dealing with his feelings about Holster being into someone who isn't him. His own romantic feelings for the dude are only a couple weeks old, and he'd had a plan for figuring out if Holster's on the same page. The appearance of a new, _actual_ object of Holster's affections, putting a solid tick mark in the “no” column, is playing havoc with Ransom's timeline—and his heart.

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be? I hadn't expected it—“

“You hadn't?” Holster sounds genuinely surprised.

“No,” Ransom says. He hadn't. Hadn't expected to switch from hopeful pining to hopeless pining so quickly. Hadn't expected to miss his opportunity so completely. “But I want you to be happy.”

Holster squints at him. “I want us _both_ to be happy.”

Ransom nods, lips pinched tightly. _Of course_ Holster's thinking about the other guy's happiness—as he should be. Whoever he is, he damned well better appreciate what he's being offered here.

Ransom is nothing if not the _best_ best friend a show-tune singing, profoundly near-sighted hockey dork from Buffalo has ever had. If Holster wants this guy, then Ransom will put away his own hurt and also be the best wingman Holster's ever had. If Holster notes Ransom's uncharacteristic lack of demand for deets, he keeps it to himself, for which Ransom is grateful.

Holster gives him weird looks the entire time he's getting dressed, but he wears the green shirt, so Ransom takes the win.

*

Sometimes pregaming means downing bottom-shelf rum and sickly-sweet schnapps in Shitty's room. Sometimes it means sitting next to your roommate on his bed, staring into his unfairly blue eyes, and saying, "The Rules of Dating: an overview."

Holster rolls his eyes. "I'm familiar with the rules of dating, Rans."

"No," Ransom says emphatically. "The rules of _dating_ are totally different from the rules of _wheeling._ "

Holster snorts—Ransom can't tell if it's amusement or annoyance—and makes a "get on with it" hand gesture. "By all means," he says.

Ransom wishes he had a PowerPoint. Maybe some spreadsheets. They make this shit so much easier to get through. He clears his throat. "One: hooking up is a sprint. Dating is a marathon. You don't need the best orgasms of your life and a promise of forever tonight. Anything besides a demand that you never speak to him again is a good outcome."

Holster grimaces but nods.

"Two: it's okay to give him space. You want him to know from the beginning that you won't be a clingy boyfriend."

"No clinging. Got it." Holster seems to be getting into it now, like he's planning to commit to these “rules” that Ransom's basically pulling out of his ass.

Ransom smiles. "Well. Maybe a little clinging. A boy likes to know he's appreciated."

Holster huffs, but he's smiling, too.

"Three: your sense of humor is your best feature. Emphasize it."

Holster blinks. "I thought it was my sick pythons and super-alluring myopia."

That startles a laugh out of Ransom. "Bro," he says "you're a good-looking dude. But this team is suspiciously full of super-hot people. You wanna establish yourself as a good choice long-term, you gotta play to your other strengths."

Holster's looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He looks mildly amused. "Humor. Check."

"Four: if you're gonna compliment, pick something he has control over. Outfit, hairstyle, accomplishments. Complimenting looks works for a pickup, but a boyfriend wants to know you appreciate his whole self, not just his hot bod."

Holster snorts a laugh at "hot bod." "Not so shabby in the humor department yourself, Rans," he says, grinning. "Five?"

Ransom thinks, despite the tizzy Holster's thrown him into, but he can't come up with another rule. He's determined to be a top-shelf wingman, but he's not going to get this guy _for him_. He puts on his most serious face and says, "Recite the Precept, Brother Adam."

Holster folds his hands as if he's praying. "Consent always, in all things," he intones.

"Amen," they say together, and Ransom nods solemnly. "Well spake, Brother Adam. Go ye forth and _get it_."

Instead of jumping to his feet like Ransom expects, Holster gives him a long, slow look that sends all thought skittering out of Ransom's head. Holster licks his lips. Ransom makes himself look away. "Yanno, Rans—" He stops and gives Ransom another look, this one shrewd in a way that makes Ransom _extremely_ nervous. "Never mind." He grins and jumps off the bed, holding out his hand. "You ready?"

Ransom is, in fact, _not_ ready to watch Holster pursue someone else, but he nods and takes the offered hand, letting Holster haul him upright. Then Holster just… forgets to let go, because he holds Ransom's hand all the way to the ground floor. Ransom's sure not gonna point it out.

Ransom watches Holster's eyes scan the room as they enter. With spring semester midterms skulking around the calendar, this will be one of their smaller kegsters. And it's early in the night for things to really have gotten started. Still, Ransom knows Holster's type, and he sees two guys who easily fit the bill and a third who's a strong maybe.

Ransom leans close to be heard over the blare of ATCQ and says, "Is he here?"

Holster huffs a soft laugh. "Yeah. He's here."

Ransom pokes Holster's shoulder, which honestly hurts Ransom more than it hurts Holster. "Then why aren't you saying hi?"

Holster's face goes comically blank, and he deadpans, "My religion prohibits being clingy."

Ransom cracks up and shoves Holster's arm. He's aware that he's touching too much, but he can't make his hand obey a simple command like _do not embarrass us_. "I need a drink."

"Oh!" Holster pushes Ransom gently so he's leaning against the wall. "Stay here. I'll bring you tub juice. If you want."

Ransom hesitates. He has Nursey Patrol later tonight, so he should stay at least more sober than Nursey. But Nursey's not here yet, and he could use the break from Holster and his everything. "That'd be swawesome, bro. Thanks."

They exchange a tub-juice-five, and then Holster bounds across the room like the overexuberant golden retriever he is, exchanging back slaps and fist bumps with friend and stranger alike as he passes. But no lax bros. Because fuck those guys.

A smaller figure slides into place at Ransom's side. He glances down and holds out a fist. Lardo bumps it with her Solo cup. "'Sup."

He nods. "'Sup, brah."

"Your boy is rocking it," she says slyly. "You dressed him?"

"I may have taken a fluorescent orange shirt out of play," he concedes.

Lardo demands another fist/cup bump. Clearly _her_ pregaming was more booze-soaked. "The eyeballs of humanity thank you."

Ransom laughs quietly. "Some guy he's into is here tonight," he says, embarrassed to admit that he's helping Holster look this good for some other guy. Lardo honest-to-god _hisses_ as she swigs whatever's in her cup.

Lardo is _killing_ tonight. Ransom knows fuck-all about makeup, but those wing-thingies make her eyes look huge and mysterious. Her tight black tank top skims the waistband of her short black shorts, offering the barest glimpse of skin when she moves just right. The black socks peeking over the tops of her black combat boots have ruffles around the cuff, and the chunky silver bracelets she's stacked on both wrists clank a soft warning when she moves her arms. She seems equally ready to dance, brawl, or humiliate some bro three times her size at flip cup.

Ransom thinks about a conversation they had last week, after Holster and Shitty drunkenly (and perfectly) re-enacted the "Romans go home" scene from _Life of Brian,_ about how much easier their lives would be if they'd fallen for each other, rather than their respective white dumbasses.

At least in Lardo's case, the dumbass has made his feelings clear. _Lardo_ is the one dragging her feet, unwilling to commit to anything with Shitty's impending graduation painting a huge question mark over any future they might have together.

Lardo looks away. Ransom expects to see her looking toward the front porch, where Shitty's set up with the tub juice. But she's watching Chowder and Farmer on the makeshift dance floor, slow dancing to fast songs and seeming unaware that anyone else is in the room.

It seems as fitting as it is depressing that, of the people Ransom thinks of as his core SMH friends these days ("the central cast," says a suspiciously Johnsonesque voice in his head, which, uh, _weird_ ), the only one in a functional romantic relationship is a frog. He guesses this is how they'll know they're adults: when they either nut up about their awkward Samwell crushes or settle down with people from the “real world.”

(The exception is Jack, of course. Jack's one true love is hockey, and in three months when he graduates, Jack is going to marry hockey in a tasteful rinkside ceremony. Their babies will be self-sinking pucks.)

Holster barrels back across the room with a red cup in each hand, his height and bulk easily clearing a path. As soon as he sees Lardo, he makes a sound most charitably described as "Swedish death metal yodeling," shoves both cups into Ransom's hands, and pulls Lardo into a hug that lifts her clear off the ground.

She yelps, "Put me down, moose!" but by the time he returns her to the floor, she's laughing so hard she has to lean on Ransom to stay upright.

Holster claps a warm, heavy hand onto Ransom's shoulder. "Thanks for looking after Rans," he tells Lardo, face serious. "I hate to leave him without a distraction, but Bits said no bouncy castle in the kitchen, so I'm making do."

Ransom cackles. Lardo rolls her eyes.

Holster nudges Ransom's fingers and takes back his cup. "Sorry 'bout that," he says as he lifts it to his lips.

Ransom clears his throat. "About what?"

Holster swallows, and Ransom tries not to stare at the movement of his throat. Holster waggles the cup. "I should've asked before I shoved it at you. But there was a Lardo."

Lardo grins too knowingly for Ransom's comfort. "Fuck yeah there was." She eyes them speculatively and then turns to Holster. "I hear you got a little something going on tonight, brah."

Holster looks at Ransom like he's never felt so betrayed. "I might," he admits reluctantly.

She pokes his arm. "Then why are you holding up the wall with us losers?"

He shoves her back—hard. She makes a small oof of surprise and stumbles into Ransom. Holster doesn't know his own strength. "You are _way_ too good for the likes of me, Lards," he says earnestly before turning a wry look on Ransom. "And _someone_ told me not to be clingy."

Lardo opens her mouth to reply. Ransom's pretty sure he's going to hate it. Then her head whips toward the porch, and she storms off with a muttered, "Son of a _dick_!"

Ransom and Holster look at each other and shrug. They're used to Lardo's finely honed manager senses alerting her to impending bonehead behavior from the team. Sure enough, two seconds later, Shitty's ear-splitting battle cry rolls across the Haus from the porch. They brace themselves, in case they need to jump in. A split second later, Jack detaches himself from his conversation with Bitty and storms across the room, captain face firmly in place. Between him and Lardo, they've got this covered. Ransom reclaims his piece of wall.

Holster drains his cup in one long, horrifying swallow and nudges Ransom with his shoulder. Well, from anyone else it would be a nudge. From Holster it's like being head-butted by a playful rhinoceros. Ransom looks over, eyebrows raised. "Wanna dance?" Holster asks.

Holster's favorite scene in _Cordella and the Queen of the Void_ is the one where 3D6@R, Cordella's lovable anthropomorphic robot assistant, goes haywire and wrecks the med bay. Unsurprisingly, this is also what Holster looks like when he dances. Ransom grins and slams back his drink. "Let's go."

Holster takes "dance like no one's watching" as a dare and returns it to the world as a threat. Usually, Ransom dances not _with_ him but in his vicinity, with enough space between them to avoid colliding with a flailing hand, foot, or (in one painfully memorable instance) ass cheek.

Tonight, Holster seems to be keeping a tighter rein on himself. Unfortunately, instead of flying everywhere, his limbs are _on Ransom._ They dance for what feels like hours but may only be moments, and Holster is _always touching him._ A huge hand skimming Ransom's hip. An arm resting on his shoulder. A leg slotted in between his. Fleeting, split-second touches that have Ransom so knotted up it's all he can do to follow the music. He's taking his cues from Holster now, god help him, because his own body and mind have thrown out the white flag. Somewhere between the heat of Holster's hands, the woodsy smell of his aftershave, the heavy rasp of his breath in Ransom's ear, and the knowing twinkle in his eyes, like he and Ransom are sharing some secret joke, Ransom is in a near-trance of overheated desire.

Then Holster leans in. He comes so close that Ransom has to angle away so Holster doesn't realize how much the touching and proximity is affecting him. He says, "I'm going to grab us water, if you want," in a low rumble that goes straight to Ransom's already suffering dick. He nods helplessly as Holster walks away, dragging his fingers ( _entirely needlessly, Adam!_ ) down Ransom's arm as he goes.

Ransom keeps dancing, mostly to regain equilibrium. He knows he didn't imagine any of that. Holster's different tonight. With the hands and the closeness and the _intensity._ Ransom doesn't know what's gotten into his best bro, and as much as he'd like it to never stop, he also doesn't know how much more he can handle.

Holster's gone a long time—far longer than grabbing two bottles of water should take. He must've run into someone he wanted to talk to (when you're 6'4" and built like a retaining wall, you don't get stuck in conversations with anyone you don't _want_ to talk to).

Ransom startles as if the promised bottle of water has been dumped over his head. _The Guy._ Holster's not back because he ran into The Guy—or went in search of him. Is that what tonight has been about? Does Holster have excess flirt he needs to bleed off from knowing that someone he's into is somewhere in the Haus?

Ransom staggers to the chairs that were shoved to the side of the room in the prep process and sinks into one. The stoned dude to his right looks at him, deeply concerned. "Dude. You don't look so hot."

Ransom snorts. "Tell me about it."

Holster returns less than a minute later, two water bottles in one hand. Holster's hands have always been A Problem for Ransom, and the sight of him gently cradling two cylindrical objects at once does _nothing_ for Ransom's composure.

Once Holster's made his way over, he twists the caps off both bottles, hands one to Ransom, and takes a long drink from his own. He looks down and frowns. "Shit, bro, you look like _balls_."

Ransom snorts. "So I've been told, dude."

Holster thrusts the half-empty bottle in his hand at Ransom. "This one, too."

Ransom glares. "You have to stay hydrated, too."

"I had one while I was in the kitchen," Holster says, and he's blushing faintly, so, guy sighting confirmed. Ransom sighs and takes the water, draining it before moving on to the full bottle.

"By the way," Holster says casually, "top outfit game tonight. That shirt makes your cheekbones look hand-carved."

"Th-thanks," Ransom forces out. He's on his feet and moving away before he's conscious of making the decision. "I've gotta—I'm gonna—"

Holster's giant, warm hand lands on his arm. "Want me to come with you?"

" _No,_ " Ransom says, more forcefully than he means to. He stops, takes a breath, and makes himself smile and look Holster in the eyes. "Thanks, man. I just need a break." He manages to pat Holster's hand before staggering off, sharply aware of how reluctant Holster seems to let him go.

He doesn't have a destination in mind, but he's not surprised when he ends up in the kitchen. Bitty really has turned it into the heart of the Haushold. The team does a lot of living there now, instead of just using it to store hot sauce and pizza rolls and hide messes before kegsters. By this point it's instinct: need comfort, go to kitchen.

Despite the room's homey appeal, it's practically empty. Some freshman who may be a volleyball player is backing out of the fridge clutching two bottles of cider, while a sophomore swimmer who was definitely dancing with Wicks and Ollie earlier in the night makes adorably excited sounds at the tray of mini-pies. Otherwise, the only people in the room are Bitty and Jack.

Ransom throws himself into a chair and drops his head onto the table. Jack scoots back, which is the first time Ransom notices how close together he and Bitty had been sitting. Bitty's blushing, and Ransom gladly turns some of his angst into irritation at Jack. No matter how oblivious Jack usually is, he _must_ realize by now that Bitty has a crush on him. It's not swawesome to string him along.

"Ransom, honey, you okay?" Bitty asks.

"You look awful," Jack adds with his usual captain’s charm. "Are you drinking enough water?"

Ransom shakes his bottle at them, which may not be convincing, since it's full.

Sure enough, Jack says, "Good," in that weird, gruffly affectionate tone he gets sometimes, "now drink it."

"Oh, _Jack,_ " Bitty chides softy before turning back to Ransom. "You wanna talk about it?"

Ransom looks at Bitty. Bitty who knows about Holster's guy. Then he looks at Jack. Who does not. "Um—"

"I was about to head upstairs," Jack almost surely lies. "Keep drinking water, Ransom. Bittle, don't stay up too late."

"Aye-aye, Captain," Bitty drawls, rolling his eyes. Ransom hears a slur to the molasses-slow words and wonders how drunk Bitty is.

Jack purses his lips like he wants to say something else. But he shakes his head and leaves the kitchen, squeezing Ransom's shoulder as he goes. Jack's been more tactile this year, and Ransom appreciates it a lot.

Bitty shakes his head at Jack's retreating back. "That man I swear," he mutters. He pops up and returns with a key lime mini-pie and a fork, which he slides in front of Ransom. "All right, hon," he says. "You eat up and tell me all about it." He rolls his eyes again. "And drink your water."

"Thanks, Bits." Ransom smiles and takes an enormous bite of pie. He drinks some water and sighs, picking at the label with his thumbnail. "So," he says, drawing the word out. "Holtzy's guy."

Bitty blinks, looking startled. Then he smiles like they're sharing a joke. "All right," he says. "Holtzy's guy. Go."

Ransom eats more pie to buy time and then says, "I won't ask for his name or clues about who he is. I wouldn't ask you to betray that trust. Just tell me: is he a good guy? Would he be good for Holster?"

He forces himself to look at Bitty. Then he jerks back, because Bitty's expression is the strangest mix of surprised, amused, and irate. He huffs. "You Buffalo butthead," he mutters. Ransom chokes on his water. Bitty smiles and puts his hands on Ransom's. "Don't you worry, Rans. This is a _very_ good guy. In fact, I'd say that, in all Samwell, _nobody_ is better for Adam Birkholtz."

That stings, but Ransom keeps his reaction tamped down. It's not Bitty's fault; he doesn't know about Ransom's feelings for Holster. But some small part of Ransom feels like people should be able to look at him and Holster and know that they're the best for each other.

"Right at this moment," Bitty continues, "I'm not sure _Holster_ is the best for _him_ —" Ransom bristles, and Bitty smirks. "But I get the feeling they'll make it work somehow."

Ransom makes a noise he hopes sounds supportive and shovels pie into his mouth, desperately trying not to picture Holster "making it work" with some other guy.

Bitty stares at him for a long moment and then stands. Ransom hears him rummaging in the fridge, and then he's setting a beer by Ransom's hand—one of the fiendishly delicious microbrews Lardo brings back from Boston and the rest of them are supposed to pretend not to know about.

"You stay in here as long as you want," Bitty says. "Finish your pie. Have another if you want—or I hid the last of the ginger molasses cookies in the usual spot. Drink more water. I gotta go put out a fire or two." He pats Ransom's hand and walks out of the room.

Ransom finishes his pie and two cookies from the secret stash, because Bitty's ginger molasses cookies are damned addictive. He sips the beer slowly. The kitchen continues to be largely empty, and he suspects he has Bitty to thank for that.

He's wavering between eating a second mini-pie and going back to face the party when a throat clears behind him. No, scratch that: _Holster's_ throat clears behind him, and Ransom's in deeper than he's realized if he can differentiate Holster's throat-clearing from everyone else's.

Ransom takes a deep breath, puts on a pleasantly blank look, and turns. "Yo, Holtzy."

"Rans." Holster nods. He rubs his neck, and Ransom's heart starts racing. "I'm, uh—Bitty said—" He stops, huffs, rolls his eyes at himself. "It has been brought to my attention that I haven't been as clear about my intentions tonight as I thought. Can we talk?"

Not trusting his voice, Ransom nods.

"Attic?" Holster asks.

Ransom considers. If things are about to go to shit between them, does he want that to happen in the room they still have to share for the next two months? On the other hand, it's a safe, comfortable space for both of them, and good luck finding privacy anywhere else in the Haus right now. Ransom nods again and stands.

Holster doesn't touch him as they leave the kitchen. In fact, Holster keeps a decorous distance between them at all times, which he hasn't done since, well… _ever_. Ransom feels a massive coral reef moment coming on.

In the living room, Team Lardo and Farmer is handing Team Bitty and Shitty their asses at beer pong. Lardo looks up and raises her eyebrows. Ransom shrugs back. Because. Seriously. Who the fuck knows what's going on anymore.

Movement in his peripheral catches Ransom's eye. He glances over in time to witness the tail end of a complicated wordless conversation between Bitty and Holster. Whatever Holster said clearly doesn't meet with Bitty's approval, because he makes a disappointed face and sinks his next shot out of, apparently, pure spite.

Ransom and Holster are silent and tense as they duck under the caution tape and climb toward the attic. The trip has never taken so long—or been over so soon. Ransom is damned near buzzing out of his skin, and Holster looks much the same. He feels like they're on a precipice, with a _very_ long fall ahead.

They both calm the moment they step into the attic. Ransom drops onto Holster's bunk, expecting Holster to follow. But Holster stands in front of him, once again rubbing his neck. Ransom's body is cold and numb, and his brain's refusing to turn over _at all._

"So," Holster says. He's trying for his usual brisk "explaining shit" tone, but his voice is audibly shaking. "Bitty says you maybe didn't understand what I'm trying to do tonight."

And intellectually, Ransom knows Holster doesn't mean it like that, but he's made it sound like it's somehow _Ransom's_ fault. He crosses his arms and glares. "Well, Bitty's _right_ ," he snaps. Holster flinches, and Ransom feels bitterly vindicated. "What _are_ you trying to do tonight?"

Holster waves his hands around. "I'm trying to get the guy! What are _you_ doing?"

Ransom huffs and throws out his own hands. "I'm _helping you_ get the guy!"

" _But you're the guy_!”

Ransom freezes—inside and out. " _What_."

"The guy. It's you, Rans. You're the guy." Holster's shoulders sag.

"The guy you're trying to get? It's me? Is that what you're saying?"

"Who the hell else would it be?"

" _Literally anyone_!"

And, oh, sure _now_ Holster sits next to him on the bed, now that Ransom's no longer sure it's a good idea. "Look, bro, I—it's new, okay?" Holster fidgets his fingers in his lap. "I mean, like, this is _last week._ We were in the dining hall, and you were telling that story about your neighbor's bees. And literally in the span of that story, I went from 'Damn, I'm glad that's my bestie' to 'I wanna get sweaty-naked with that dude and then hold his hand while we walk on the beach.'"

"You hate the beach," Ransom says automatically.

"Fucking jellyfish," Holster mutters. "Anyway, between classes and practice and everything else, I hadn't had time to, like, sit down and figure out what to do about it.

"And that was _fine,_ " he continues insistently. "I knew I had time to figure it out. I mean, I wasn't gonna, like, sit over here _pining_ forever. But I figured, you know, taking a couple weeks to get my shit together wouldn't hurt. But then you said you knew about the guy—"

"You and Bits do _not_ talk quietly, bro." Not exactly the contribution Ransom wants to be making to this discussion, but it has to be said.

Holster nods. "Right, right. I know this. I do. It's just, like, oh, man, I thought you'd heard the _whole conversation._ I thought you knew it was you. So when you gave me those 'Rules of Dating,' I thought, okay, it's weird that we're not gonna talk about it, but this must be how he's saying yes. This must be him telling me how to. Y'know. _Woo him._ "

"Those were—they weren't _me_ rules. They were just… rules. Universal dating rules."

"No rule is universal, bro," Holster says in an imitation of Nursey so perfect Ransom chokes on his surprised laugh. "Everything is, like, totally filtered through personal and cultural experience and shit." Holster shakes his head. "You can't tell me that wasn't, like, The Five-Step Guide to Wooing Justin Oluransi."

And the thing is, Holster isn't wrong. Those rules _felt_ universal to Ransom, but they're _also_ things he looks for when someone tries to pick him up for anything beyond a one-off. He just—"No, but, I heard you! You said the guy was going to be here tonight."

Holster makes an expressive "and here you are" gesture. Ransom shoves his shoulder. Holster grins ruefully. "I mean, if it's the part of the conversation I'm thinking of, I said something like, 'And now I've gotta _see_ the guy at the kegster tonight, looking all hot and smart and put-together and perfect.'" He gives Ransom a sheepish look from under his lashes, and Ransom's ridiculous heart actually flutters. "I mean you, bro. It's definitely you."

Ransom's head is spinning. He's barely hanging on for the ride of this conversation. He'll have to get away soon, so he can sit down and sort out the _feelings_ he's having. For now, one thought is spinning around in the forefront of his mind like a giddy kid on a carousel: _It's me! **I'm** the guy!_

He cocks his head at Holster. "And you're looking for… what, here? Casual dating? A relationship?"

Holster gives him a prissy look. "We're way too emotionally invested in each other for casual, don'tcha think, _bro_?"

Ransom laughs. "Yeah, dude, okay, I get it." Feeling ridiculous and daring, he slides his hand across the bed and hooks his pinkie around Holster's. Holster snorts, but after a second he grins.

"And, listen," Holster says, "if we want to—I mean, maybe, like, put a pin in this for now—" Ransom doesn't know what his face does in response to that, but it's obviously pathetic enough for Holster to rush on, "I mean. Just until, like, finals are over?"

Ransom doesn't _want_ to. But he forces himself to take a breath and think about it. It's not the worst idea. Between the end of hockey and the start of finals, this is maybe not the best time to throw a new relationship on top of it.

But the way Holster's looking at him now—the way, he suddenly realizes, Holster's been looking at him all night—the hell he's giving that up for two months. "Maybe not... a pin," Ransom says carefully. "More like a... a crimp in the line."

Ransom thinks the simile was absurd, but Holster beams like it was award-winning poetry. "Yeah? What's that look like?"

Ransom thinks for a second. "Probably a lot like what we usually do," he says before boldly sliding his hand up to curl his fingers around Holster's wrist. "Only with more... _intent_."

Holster's breath hitches. Ransom is _so_ glad Holster's wearing his contacts tonight, because now he has a _very_ up-close view of the way his pupils dilate (and also because Holster in Glasses has a very stable spot in the top five of a super-secret spreadsheet titled "How Adam Birkholtz is Ruining My Life").

"So, like... hand-holding?" Holster flips his hand around so they're holding hands. Ransom's fingertips tingle.

"Yeah, probably." His voice barely shakes.

"Long, meaningful gazes?" Holster leans forward.

Ransom huffs but meets Holster's gaze—and immediately starts to feel like the oxygen has been sucked out of his lungs.

Holster glances to Ransom's lips and then back to his eyes before whispering hoarsely, "Kissing?"

Ransom laughs shakily. " _Asshole,_ " he mutters. Then he half falls, half throws himself into kissing Holster for the first time.

Holster is a big guy with big emotions, so it's no surprise (in the tiny corner of Ransom's brain that can process things rationally) that he's a big kisser. He throws his whole body into it, his free hand coming up to cup the back of Ransom's head, his lips moving fast and sure against Ransom's. At the same time, he's showing a level of _finesse_ that Ransom hasn't imagined (and, _oh_ , has he imagined), an almost quivering control like Holster's keeping a tight rein on himself.

Ransom is very much looking forward to his dropping that rein.

But... not tonight, if they're serious about going slow. Ransom draws back, reluctantly ignoring Holster's small whine of protest. They look at each other with matching goofy grins. Holster says, “So, that happened.”

Ransom snorts and draws his fingers through Holster's thick hair. “It sure did, bro.”

“Think it might… happen again?” Holster waggles his eyebrows. It's not nearly as seductive as Holster thinks it is, which somehow makes it _more_ seductive than he thinks it is. Dating is _weird._

Ransom pushes at the glorious muscles of Holster's chest until he takes the hint and lies back on the bed. “That could be arranged,” Ransom says.

As he starts to follow Holster down, something bright flashes in his peripheral vision. He glances over and sees Holster's unfortunate orange shirt sticking out of the drawer Ransom shoved it into a lifetime ago. Ransom laughs.

“What?” Holster asks, eyes twinkling in anticipation of the joke Ransom's about to let him in on. “What's funny?”

“I,” Ransom says smugly, settling more securely against the broad body beneath him, “am a _great_ wingman.”

“Best ever,” Holster agrees, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Aww, Cordella! Good ol' 3D6@R.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments appreciated; comments slowly but eventually replied to.
> 
> I'm also [a tumbl-bee](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/)


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